"May--thy gods--reward thee--Olaf Gueldmar--even--as
mine--are--rewarding--_me_!"
And with these words, her head dropped heavily on her breast. Ulrika
laid her back on her pillow, a corpse. The stern, cruel smile froze
slowly on her dead features--gradually she became, as it were, a sort of
ancient cenotaph, carved to resemble old age combined with unrepenting
evil--the straggling white hair that rested on her wrinkled forehead
looking merely like snow fallen on sculptured stone.
"Good Lord, have mercy on her soul!" murmured Ulrika piously, as she
closed the upward staring eyes, and crossed the withered hands.
"Good devil, claim thine own!" said Gueldmar, with proudly lifted arm and
quivering, disdainful lips. "Thou foolish woman! Thinkest thou thy Lord
makes place for murderers in His heaven? If so, 'tis well I am not bound
there! Only the just can tread the pathway to Valhalla,--'tis a better
creed!"
Ulrika looked at his superb, erect figure and lofty head, and a
strangely anxious expression flitted across her dull countenance.
Pages:
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965